I played until my fingers hurt.

It was the closest I could get to a conversation with the father I remembered.

When I turned seventeen, I began thinking seriously about leaving home.

Not because I hated Dad.

At least, not yet.

I just wanted to live somewhere I could make mistakes without being reminded how much they cost.

I wanted to play music without worrying about disturbing him.

I wanted to invite friends over without hearing how much electricity we were using.